


the best way out (is through)

by strangehighs



Series: until your heartbeat hurts no more [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Family Dynamics, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Nicky died before the Crusades, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:34:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26875255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangehighs/pseuds/strangehighs
Summary: Smoke and flames, bones, and shriveled skin, danced in his eyes whether he kept them open or closed; the shadows mocked him at every new reminder. He endured more pain than he could put to words, creative torture at the hands of his jailers for a hundred years and more, and he’d lived. The pain he’d felt from the fear of losing the man in his arms was something entirely different. He wasn’t sure he’d been able to survive it.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova & Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: until your heartbeat hurts no more [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1960714
Comments: 86
Kudos: 431





	1. Chapter 1

As it turned out, living in the wide-open world after so long away was a wondrous, never-ending adventure, though frightening at some points. Nicolò loved all moments the same—even the fewer and fewer dark ones.

Though the shadows clung to him, right at the edges of his vision, most of the time they were powerless against the brightness and the colors, the laughter, and the love that surrounded him on their travels. He drunk deeply, greedily, at the seemingly endless fountain of affection that was his family, in all the shapes it manifested: Quỳnh insisting on taking a month’s long detour from their original destination just to show him a unique sight, Andromache going through five major cities until she tracked down someone who knew how to make a specific sweet she wanted him to taste exactly how she remembered it, Yusuf helping him remember how to swim in the bluest sea he’s ever seen.

All in all, he didn’t think anyone could fault him for taking so long to notice there was something ill-fitting in the life they led. It was there, hiding along with the dredged up feelings that still made him freeze with the touch of a certain stranger, or run out to retch at the smell of dampness permeating the stone hut in Rasht they took refuge in while travelling East. In how many weapons they had between themselves, and how fiercely they trained him, and yet it never seemed to come a time when his help was needed. He dismissed his worries at seeing them leave in pairs, someone always staying behind with him. It was to be something simple, they would say, there was no need for everyone to go.

Sometimes they were right and they would come back fine, not a drop of the blood staining their clothes their own; other times the damage was obvious, even after fully healed, apparent in clothes ragged beyond what a simple graze of a blade could justify. These times Nicolò felt words crawling up his throat, but invariably he pushed them down.

( _They’re much more experienced than you_ , he would reason, _they know what they’re doing._ Sometimes this would be enough to quiet his discomfort, and, if not, the feel of Yusuf’s strong heartbeat against his back once he returned—steady, constant—would settle him down.)

But not every time.

( _They think you too weak_ , the shadows would whisper, an insistent fly buzzing around his head, _Too broken to be of any use. Why would they need the help of someone who can’t stand his own hair touching the top of his ears?_ )

And so Nicolò said nothing. He made himself useful in their travels every way he could: learning how to cook a full meal out of whatever scraps they had in hand, tending wounds, and splinting broken bones on the people they helped along the way. He learned how to entertain children, to help elders without hurting their pride; how to tile fields and tend to animals, to hunt. The bow and knife he’d been given so long ago when they first left the safety of their little house in the Alps helped feed many; it felt selfish to wish for more when he already had so much.

The passing of the years made his feeling of mild discomfort fester and grow to a deep-seated resentment once he realized his attempts at proving himself made no difference. To him remained the background duties; no matter what he said, or what he did, it seemed he was doomed to be left behind with the frail and the old.

His feelings didn’t go unnoticed, and that’s what hurt him the most: they saw it, and they tried to cheer him up in various ways, except the one way that would matter. He found himself shying away from their affections ( _Coddling_ , the shadows would whisper, leering ever closer, _smothering_ ). He pretended not to see the hurt in Yusuf’s eyes when he settled his bedroll on the opposite side of the camp for the first time in years, ignoring his crawling skin begging for the familiar warmth.

That was the worst part of it, he thought, that even Yusuf seemed bent on holding him back. He thought that out of the three of them, he should be the one to know better. Nicolò hadn’t been able to tell him everything—he wasn’t sure he ever would, even counting on Yusuf’s never-ending patience—but still, Yusuf _knew_ him. There was no way his dearest friend couldn’t see how it was tearing Nicolò apart to be kept away like this, and yet he said nothing.

* * *

He argued with Andromache when she sent him away to escort the last survivors of the village pressed on all sides by warring rulers who didn’t seem to care for the pawns they lost, while the three of them stayed behind. Nicolò had never raised his voice at his companions, or anyone else for that matter, but he raged and screamed until his throat was hoarse. Yusuf’s hand on his arm, for the first time since they met, had no effect. He ignored the hurt look from his friend, only to have the breath punched out of him at Andromache’s words. They rang on his mind the entire trek to the fortified city, trudging along with carts and pack animals, and the shadows tightened around him, suffocating.

“Your blade won’t make any difference here, Nico,” she said.

He was supposed to wait for them in the city. He only went as far as the gate.

The column of smoke he saw on the horizon was a sign he was too late to help, even though his horse had stumbled twice already in exhaustion at the rhythm he imposed on the poor creature. Nicolò spared half a thought to the carelessness of riding into a razed village as he did—a hundred soldiers, the guard at the gates said, that was the size of the battalion seen prowling around the valley—but he couldn’t stop himself, not with the dread pressing tighter and tighter at his chest. He saw bodies of attacking soldiers littering the streets, pierced by the red-feathered arrows he’d helped Quỳnh prepare, limbs missing from sharp blades. No sign of his friends. No sign—

In the market square, the burning inn creaked, folding into itself; a shape ran out, followed closely by another, just as half the building collapsed. Nicolò was onto them like lightning.

“Where is he?” he asked, watching Quỳnh pull Andromache’s burning shirt off with blistered hands. He could see the white bone of her shoulder, the singed flesh slowly knitting itself back in front of his eyes. “Quỳnh,” he begged, “Where’s Yusuf?”

A flicker of her eyes reflecting the dancing flames.

The vicious grip on his wrist held him down, interrupting his start towards the burning pile. He tried to shake off Andromache’s fingers, but even in her half-dead state, she was still stronger than him.

“He’ll heal.”

Breathing hard, Nicolò looked down at her. Charred skin turning pink scar and whole again; an eye melted shut blinked open, knowing and deep.

“From cinder? From ash? Will he heal back to life from that?” he bit out, jerking his arm away, “Answer me, Andromache!” She stared at him and said nothing. Nicolò unfastened his weapons, throwing them to the ground at their feet.

“Nicolò, don’t be a fool!” called Quỳnh, torn between holding up her still healing lover and restraining him. “Nicolò!”

Her calls were muted by the crack and twist of the flames engulfing him, the searing heat licking up his legs and arms as he tried to navigate through it. Nicolò stumbled, finding no air with which to call Yusuf; fallen logs took the shape of his friend in the haze, and he fell to the ground with a whimper. A sliver of blue amid the reds and yellows caught his attention, half-buried under the caved-in roof. His fingers touched flesh, open and sizzling, but he couldn’t pull him away from the trap formed by a thick support beam.

The shadows danced around him, closer and so very pleased. Closer than ever since he awakened fully, aware of himself and his surroundings, of _Yusuf_. Nicolò growled, pushing at the burning log with all his strength; he felt the flesh of his fingers melting, sticking to the wood turned to coal. His chest burned with each breath, the leather of his shoes fell off leaving his feet bare to the flames and he kept pushing. Little by little the body underneath was revealed: blackened flesh and charred bones, scraps of cloth that crumbled at a movement. There’s almost nothing left of Yusuf under the assault of the flames.

Nicolò sobbed, the pain of his burning flesh, of pure fear, making him gag. He held on, and as the fire started to lick up his back he pushed with all the strength he had left. The log slid away in a burst of sparks. He gathered Yusuf, stumbling blindly towards what he thought was the way out.

A gust of cold air hit his face, and he managed two more steps before crumbling down on the ground. Distantly he registered Quỳnh and Andromache’s steps to their side, his own skin mending and pulling close again. It all felt unimportant, meaningless.

“Yusuf, wake up,” he mumbled. He had no idea which language he was even speaking, and he wanted to touch him _so badly_ but every bit he could see was black and cracking. Gently, he laid a hand on what should be his cheek. There was nothing of his bear left. “Yusuf, please.”

The tears stung, pushing the soot coating his eyelids out. “Yusuf, wake up,” he begged, in the Zeneize they first spoke, then in the Arabic he learned later. In the Tamazight of his friend’s youth. “Wake up, please,” he whimpered. He wasn’t _moving_ , Nicolò shook his head, lowering to touch his forehead against Yusuf’s, shaking off a hand that touched his shoulder. “Wake up,” he begged, eyes closed tight.

“‘m here.”

The rasp was frail, inaudible under the crackling fire, but he felt it against his face. With his vision blurred by tears and smoke, Nicolò raised his head just enough he could see the damage reverting, slowly, _too slow_ , in the face he loved so much. The chest under his palm rattled, shaking, but rose and fell, stuttering one unsteady breath after another; he thought he’d never heard a more beautiful sound.

“I’m here,” Yusuf repeated, surer this time. Nicolò kissed his face, his healing eyelids, and thought that _this_ was the most beautiful sound in the world.

* * *

The farmhouse they had been staying on was thankfully still intact, too out of the way to attract any sort of unwanted attention. Yusuf floated in and out of consciousness, tied to the saddle of Nicolò’s horse while the others walked silently beside it. Nicolò was equally thankful that neither Andromache nor Quỳnh tried to make him talk. He wasn’t sure what would come out of his mouth if they did.

Nicolò carried Yusuf inside when his weak legs refused to cooperate, settling him in their makeshift bed. He kept his eyes focused on him, on the task of filling the tub with warm water, and finding him clean clothes; it didn’t take long before the others noticed he would speak now, that he didn’t _want_ them here now, and they left for the other room in silence. His throat tightened watching them go, Andromache’s bare back streaked with ash. He turned to Yusuf again. Nicolò took great care while washing him, soaping him up in lather, just to watch the clean skin appear again when he rinsed it. Healthy skin. Flushed and alive.

Yusuf didn’t protest when he took a razor to shave the remaining patches of his hair and beard, though Nicolò could barely keep his hand steady; only a few clumps remained, most of it eaten away by the flames. He looked different bare, vulnerable in a way he’d never seen; Yusuf always held himself stalwart. He refused the offer of food with a gentle smile, saying he felt queasy still and would rather just sleep; Nicolò heard the silent request hanging in the air, and joined him on the bed after cleaning himself.

He laid facing Yusuf, his back open, vulnerable to the room behind him.

(Still a struggle after all these years. Still _weak_.)

His discomfort didn’t matter, didn’t compare to the need to _see_ him; the rise and fall of Yusuf’s chest with each breath, the warmth of his skin in his arms. Alive. He was alive.

Nicolò raised his hand to his head, feeling the prickly stubble of hair interspersed with patches of smooth skin. Shaved and burned. He knew it would grow back—Yusuf’s hair grew fast as weeds after rain, springy and lively—but for some reason, he felt such deep grief at its loss. He pressed his nose against his temple, hands touching everywhere they could reach; the spicy smell of smoke clung to his skin even after the bath, tickling at his throat. Nicolò wanted to cry.

“Nico…”

He bit his lip. Yusuf felt his distress, as he always did.

“I’m sorry,” Yusuf rasped, his voice so tired. His warm hand clung to Nicolò’s shirt, over his ribs.

Nuzzling, he pulled him closer. “Hush,” he muttered, and he almost succeeded in keeping the tremble out of his voice. “Sleep now. We talk later.”

“But—”

“No,” he interrupted, pulling his head back to look at his friend fully. Yusuf’s eyes shone in the low light of the room, conflicted, but fell close when he ran his hand along the bare cheek. “You need to rest. We have time.” He felt Yusuf nodding under his palm, sagging against him. A few moments later he was asleep.

The hours passed, and despite the comforting heartbeat thumping along his front, Nicolò couldn’t rest. Smoke and flames, bones, and shriveled skin, danced in his eyes whether he kept them open or closed; the shadows mocked him at every new reminder. He endured more pain than he could put to words, creative torture at the hands of his jailers for a hundred years and more, and he’d lived. The pain he’d felt from the fear of losing the man in his arms was something entirely different. He wasn’t sure he’d been able to survive it.

His steps made no sound when he gathered what he would need in the room. Kneeling by the bed, Nicolò pulled the blankets snuggly around Yusuf, sparing one long moment to watch him breathe. He would be safe here—he was going to make sure of that.

A bundle of the red-tipped arrows, Yusuf’s spare sword, Nicolò’s own bow; he found nothing of Andromache, but it would have to be enough. The house was quiet as he crossed the front room, and he marched out into the night with purpose. His horse complained at being awoken—the poor thing certainly exhausted—so he decided to take Andromache’s instead; it was a willy, half-wild creature much like her owner, but their leader had a special way with horses Nicolò could only hope to imitate. It accepted him without too much noise, and he was so focused on saddling it without getting kicked that he only noticed her when the horse calmed suddenly.

“It’s a foolish idea.”

“Are you going to stop me then?” he said through gritted teeth. Andromache raised an eyebrow at him, barely visible under the moonlight.

“No,” she answered, hoisting his packs up. “It’s clear now that we’ve all been foolish, and it wouldn’t do us any good to stop you from doing what you feel you have to do.”

That certainly wasn’t the expected answer, and he turned to her in confusion. Andromache returned his look, soft resignation in her eyes, and Nicolò felt his anger fade. “Why did you do it then?” he asked, “Why did you send me away from the fight time and time again? I know I’m not as strong as you,” his voice broke, and the sight of Yusuf’s lifeless body flashed in front of him again, all the times they came back hurt and he could do nothing, “But you trained me. You taught me, and yet you won’t let me do anything—”

“I don’t think you weak, Nico—yes, I know that’s what you’re thinking,” Andromache interrupted. Sighing at his pointed look, she rested her head on the horse’s flank. “Fuck, we messed this up so bad…” she muttered. “You always think the worst of yourself, but this is not on you,” she continued, raising her head to look back at him. “We, we were scared _for_ you. You know, all of us died fighting. Me, Quỳnh and Yusuf, and…” Her voice caught in old grief. “And Lykon, we were all soldiers, but not you. Your death was an accident, you were a priest before it happened. Violence was not part of your life, until it was _only_ violence.” The hand that reached for his was strong and warm, and Nicolò could only accept it. “We didn’t feel like it was fair to put you through it again…”

“Violence is part of _your_ lives. How could I keep away from it when the three of you are _my_ life?” he asked. Andromache grunted, pulling him to her in a hug. He could still smell the smoke in her hair. “I need to do this.”

“I know,” she answered against his neck.

“How many?”

“About thirty,” said Andromache, letting go of him. “We took down some sixty, seventy, before they got the upper hand. They _saw_ us,” she added. “It took five of them to get Quỳnh down, even though she had an ax stuck to her back at the time.”

Nicolò nodded, pulling himself up on the horse. The mare bucked, hitting the ground with her hooves at the indignity of having to bear anyone but her owner. “I’m taking the horses so you can’t follow me,” he said, before looking down at Andromache. “Keep the others here and wait for me, please.” She nodded.

“Nico,” Andromache called. He turned to see her standing at the door. “I’m sorry for breaking my promise.”

He frowned. “What promise?”

“To support you. To be there when you needed.”

“I didn’t do my part,” he said, “I didn’t tell you that it was bothering me.”

“You did. We just didn’t listen,” she answered, softly. “Bring back my labrys, if you find it. And be careful, they’re not too bad at fighting—for a bunch of thugs, that is.”

He smiled at her; of course, she would remember her weapon. “I will. Tell Yusuf I’m fine, he’ll worry.” She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “And I’m not going to fight.”

“Oh, no?”

“No,” he said, urging the horses to a gallop, “I’m going to hunt.”


	2. Chapter 2

Yusuf awoke to a deep feeling of loss. A second later, before he even opened his eyes, he remembered waking up alone wasn’t such an uncommon thing these days, no matter how wrong it still felt. It had been weeks since Nico had shared his bed; it had been years since they slept apart—never since that first night Nico came to his bed for comfort—and he’d forgotten how much he hated it.

The worst thing was that it was his fault.

He’d seen the shadows growing behind Nico’s watchful eyes, the restlessness and the pain each time he was left behind. He knew his friend wouldn’t push too hard against their arrangements, given how little he enjoyed asking things for himself. He knew he was betraying his trust each time and every time, they all knew. Still their silent agreement remained, for he was not the only one who remembered the ghost they rescued out of a damp cell near the Alps; sparing Nico any pain they could was the right thing to do. Only they spared him nothing, did they?

Yusuf sighed, turning his head on whatever poor excuse of a pillow they had this time, trying to get comfortable again and sleep off the exhaustion weighing his body down. Each limb felt leaden, his skin tight and over-sensitive. He frowned at the strange taste at the back of his throat, but he was halfway asleep already. His bare cheek touched the rough fabric and—

Bare cheek. Bare...scalp?

Opening his eyes in a flesh, Yusuf brought his hand to his head, sluggish and halting, to feel smooth skin under his fingertips. He’d only ever shaved his hair during Hajj and Umrah, and never his beard since he grew into it almost two centuries ago, so why—

“—he go?”

Quỳnh’s voice rang loud and desperate through the thin walls, and he _remembered_. The fight. The fire. Nicolò.

His first attempt at standing ended with a broken wrist when his legs refused to bear his weight. Groaning, Yusuf pushed himself to his feet with increased dread once he noticed his sword missing. He remembered Nico laying with him, the feel of hands against his face; he’d been cradled, held, in an inversion of how they usually slept. He remembered the hands that touched him had trembled, and the bright eyes he loved so much shining with stifled tears.

“I made him a promise,” said Andromache, barely sparing him a glance when he bursted into the room, holding his mending hand close to his chest. She looked tired, but resolute against Quỳnh’s fury. “We failed him already, love. It was the least I could do.”

“You let him go after thirty soldiers alone!” Quỳnh shouted, “He never killed anyone before, and you let him go alone!”

Yusuf didn’t hear Andromache’s answer, even though she was just across the room. Their voices faded to a buzz while his legs threatened to give out. He went alone. He went—

“Yusuf, where are you going?”

“The horses,” he muttered, breathing through the dizziness. “We can, we can catch up to him and—”

“He took them,” Quỳnh answered, voice shaking with fear, and anger, and so much hurt. “He took the horses, and the weapons, and he went alone. And Andromache just _let him_.”

His legs wavered at the front step, and he gave up, folding to the floor. Yusuf spared a moment to think about the sorry figure he must have made just then, bald and barefoot, dressed only in a tunic a little tight at the arms. Nico’s tunic.

“He was angry at us, disappointed, and rightly so,” he half heard Andromache answering. “We promised we would listen to him when he needed help, and all we did was ignore them in favour of our worries. He cannot shelter him forever,” she said, voice softening. “We freed him once; it’s unfair to him that we become the ones tying him up in the end.”

The pinks and purples of the dawning sun, already freed of the horizon, faded fast into a stormy sky while Yusuf watched from his place on the floor. He’d missed fajr already, he thought dispassionately, eyeing the clouds moving fast against each other, lightning cracking in the distance. The storm would be at Nicolò’s back when he rode after the rest of the man they couldn’t finish—all thirty or so of them. Alone.

“I can’t lose him,” he heard Quỳnh whisper behind him. “Not after—”

 _After Lykon_ , he heard even though she didn’t say it out loud. He knew their attachment, their protectiveness of Nicolò had a different root than his: a young man they loved as part of themselves—they had even been the same age when they first died—family in a sense he was just starting to comprehend. They’d lost one so suddenly, after more than a thousand of years, and with him the surety of their immortality. It made sense that they would doubly fear losing Nico too, after it almost happened before they even found him.

For Yusuf it was… different.

He didn’t have thousands of years weighing on his back, and neither did he know loneliness like Quỳnh or Andromache did. He knew loss, but he also knew love; the memory of the family he’d had to leave behind, to outgrow and outlive brought him equal measures of sadness and happiness. He’d been able to see his children grow old, fully realised beings that went on to brighten the world; he’d been able to care for his wife in old age, to give her comfort for as long as possible. It had been a blessed life, and even though he decided to leave once Judi passed away, he’d always brought them with him. He knew the others didn’t have the clarity he still had, the details of their memories eroded by time and wear, so he knew exactly how different their situations were.

What didn't change, from his old life to the new one, was that he felt the most complete while protecting his family. The knowledge of their safety, of their happiness, sustained him day after day, so when Nicolò came along, finally theirs, finally _free_ , Yusuf felt an immediate connection to him, and he vowed to himself he would do anything in his power to keep him from harm.

His failure hung heavy in his chest. If only he didn't let himself be captured, if he fought harder. If—

"That's not the issue and you know it."

Yusuf sighed, closing his eyes. Andromache was right, but knowing it didn’t make him feel any better. "Still, he wouldn't have gone alone if we hadn’t—” He rubbed his face, his strange, bare face, the skin prickling with the charged air. “He shouldn’t have had to go alone.”

“Now that’s the issue, isn’t it?” she said, sitting down beside him with a tired sigh of her own. “If only we’d paid attention to what he said before, then maybe this wouldn’t be happening, but that ship has sailed and there’s no calling it back. Now we deal with the consequences of our actions.” Andromache pulled him close, arm thrown over his shoulders, and Yusuf let himself go. He was so tired. “We’re all worried, sick with fear something could happen to him, but he needed it. It would’ve been wrong to stop him.”

“I know this,” he muttered in the crook of her neck, throat tightening, “I… I saw it growing, festering. I saw it and I did nothing, even when he pulled away from me because he couldn’t stand it anymore…”

“Three days. That’s what I promised him, and if he’s not back we go after him. Three days, Yusuf.” Andromache pushed him so she could look him in the eye, all the weight of her too long life behind her gaze. “Can you do it for him?”

“I would do anything for him.”

She smiled, running her hand through his cheek. “Then come rest a bit more, before we find you something to eat, you must be exhausted still from yesterday,” she said, standing up and pulling him along. Her hand tightened, lips pressed in a thin line. “It took you very long to come back.”

* * *

The three days of wait felt longer than a decade, longer than a _century_. The bone deep tiredness was gone after he slept off most of the first day, restless though were his dreams. When he woke up, he couldn’t remember much more than the hollowness of missing Nicolò, paralyzing fear of losing him, and for that he was grateful—he was certain his overactive mind had concocted all the worst possible scenarios while he tried to rest. Food tasted like dirt in his mouth, even when he was hungry, and only the thought of needing his strength in case… In case he didn’t return in time made him force it down his throat.

Yusuf wished he could do better for his family right now, as he watched the tension radiating off Quỳnh and Andromache, fit to explode at any moment. They barely spoke to each other during their vigil, not even with the silent glances he came to understand were born out of a familiarity he could only hope to achieve with someone someday. Of knowing someone better than your own soul. The resentment growing in Nicolò had spread its sickly tendrils, taking hold over them all, and he _should have seen it coming_. He should have, and so Yusuf said nothing.

The rain only let off on the second day, being replaced by humid heat and a bright colored world, washed clean through torrential waters and lightning. Yusuf watched the change from his place on the doorstep, waiting, trying not to think.

His heart clogged his throat as he watched the sun set on the third day, the pinks and oranges fading with no sign of his friend. Yusuf’s hand sought his now prickly cheek, scratching away at his stubble and tried to tell himself there was still time, the day was far from over yet, even if the sun was already gone. The colors gave away to greys and blues, the night setting fast, and Yusuf’s heart sank all the way down to the bottom of his stomach. Biting his lip, he stood slowly, unwilling to take his eyes off the road, but he had to face his reality. There were preparations to be made before the morning, about how to reach Nicolò wherever he was without horses or weapons, but they would make do. They had to.

He couldn’t avoid one last glance towards the road, to catch the last light, and that was when he saw it: a vague shape in the distance, a shape he would know from the other side of the world.

Yusuf was out in a blink of an eye, running towards Nicolò’s little caravan of horses with no other thought except to reach him, to touch and feel the warmth of his skin under his palms. As he approached though, the sight of his friend made him keep his hands to himself: Nicolò was bloodstained and pale, the shadows under his eyes a sharp contrast to his ashen face. He saw Yusuf, a flicker of his eyes the only acknowledgement he received before the horses passed him by, and he was left standing alone in the muddy road, his heart now shattering in a million pieces.

 _You caused it_ , his mind supplied, and he fought off the tremble on his chin, _now you deal with it_. And so he followed.

Nico dismounted in front of the house, unhooking from the saddle a burlap sack steadily dripping red on the ground. Andromache's labrys was strapped to his back, Yusuf's favourite sword tied to his belt, the blade badly chipped; there was not a single arrow left in his quiver. The horses were left at the porch, and Yusuf spared a thought for the poor beasts, tired and sweaty from the road, but he followed Nicolò inside as if tethered. He sidestepped the red drops of blood, dread hammering at his chest, suffocating and thick.

Alone in the room, Quỳnh dropped her wooden bowl, a strangled gasp of surprise summoning Andromache from the back. Before either of them could reach him, Nicolò threw the sack on the floor, its contents spilling in front of them like children's toys. Yusuf recognized the face of staring at their hearth with cloudy, dead eyes, mouth pulled away in a red snarl: the commander they couldn't reach, who ordered them to be tied inside the building and burned to death.

"I got your labrys back."

Andromache snorted, ignoring the severed head in the middle of the room in favour of reaching up to cup the back of his head, pressing her forehead to his. "You've cut it awfully close," she said, letting the worry bleed into her voice more freely than in any of the previous days, "We were about to start packing."

Nicolò shrugged. "There were a lot of them and only one of me."

"You got all of them?" Quỳnh asked, pushing the head with the tip of her shoe. Her eyes looked tight, the square of her shoulders giving away what she was keeping inside.

"Yes," answered Nico, and she nodded. He narrowed his eyes at her and sighed, pulling her close and whispering something Yusuf couldn't make out; Quỳnh sobbed, throwing her arms around him in a tight hug unheeded of the blood and grit coating him. Nicolò cradled her head against his shoulder, murmuring soft words of comfort while she just squeezed him harder. Throughout all this, Nicolò made no sign of noticing him and Yusuf felt bereft.

"We'll deal with this," said Andromache, pointing at the head, "And the horses. You go clean up and rest for the night, because even though this regiment is gone we should probably leave in the morning, in case there are others nearby."

Nicolò nodded, grateful, and walked away without another word, leaving Yusuf uncertain about what his next action should be. He longed to follow him, to care for him like he’d been cared for just a few days ago, but right now all he could picture was his offer being rebuked, thrown back at him. He wasn’t sure he could bear it.

“What are you still doing standing there like a fence post?” hissed Quỳnh, while Andromache bent down to pick up the severed head. “Go to him!”

“But what if he doesn’t—”

“Yusuf, I love you very dearly, but if you don’t go after him _right now_ ,” said Andromache, with the same voice he’d seen her use against people brandishing blades against her. As if she couldn’t fathom such a level of stupidity. “I’ll stab you, and leave you here to clean up the mess when you wake up.”

That was all the incentive he needed.

Nicolò stood in the doorway to their bedroom, his shoulders impossibly heavy against the wooden frame. He did not raise his head until Yusuf gathered enough courage to touch his arm, as softly as one would a frightened animal. The mark on his cheek was barely visible under a streak of rusted blood.

Yusuf bit his lip. “Will you let me help you?” The shadowed eyes met his, searching, and Nico nodded.

He filled the tub under careful watch, before turning to help Nicolò with the fastening of his clothes; it had been too long since there had been any shame between them, but right now Yusuf waited for permission before starting. Despite the stains, and the mud, the garments were mostly intact. Over thirty soldiers, and the biggest slash was a graze against the left side of his ribs, hardly fatal. Still silent, Nicolò accepted his help in getting into the tub, the pale skin of his back flexing in the firelight; Yusuf was gentle, as gentle as he could, washing away the signs of violence. One word. It was all he wanted.

“It wasn’t the first time.”

The words were barely a sigh, but when Yusuf raised his face, Nico was looking back at him. Truly _looking_ at him.

“I know this was one of the reasons you tried to keep me away,” he continued, tilting his head suggestively, and Yusuf resumed washing his hair. “Because you thought I’d never killed anyone before, right? Just, just yes or no, please.” Biting his lip, Yusuf nodded. Nico blew a hard breath through his nose, sagging down on the tepid water to rest his head against the rim of the tub, right beside Yusuf’s hand. “This is why you always berate me for not using my words…”

As if guided by an invisible force, his hand rose to Nico’s hair, the short strands so familiar to him now. There was a time when just this would leave his friend unresponsive for days, withdrawing so deep inside himself he would forget to eat and drink, only to slowly come aware exhausted and spent. He still couldn’t stand to have it tugged on, or to have it long enough to swing around his face, but he enjoyed a gentle touch as much as the next person, even if he indeed hardly ever used words to ask for it.

“I also told you, many times in fact, that we could wait until you found the right ones,” said Yusuf.

Nicolò was silent under his hands, and his eyes were hidden now; he took long enough Yusuf thought he would leave it at that. “There was a man,” he whispered, “He had power over the other guards, so a captain I think, or maybe something else.”

His words chilled Yusuf to the core, as always happened when memories of the cell were brought to light. “He enjoyed hurting me in creative ways—said I whimpered beautifully once I was past the screams.” He heard Nicolò licking his lips, pulling in a deep breath, before continuing. “With time, he turned… complacent, I think, safe with my lack of resistance. One day he came in the cell with a dagger still strapped to his waist.” Big eyes, hard and unforgiving, turned to him. “I gutted him, hip to chest. When the guards came in to see what was wrong, I cut the first one’s throat open before he could scream.”

“It was the time you escaped.”

Nico nodded. “After they caught me again, they thought it safer to just leave me in the dark. They forgot me sometimes, I think,” he said, “I mostly died from hunger those days…”

He said nothing more while Yusuf dried him, nor while he helped him dress. Tunic, pants, thick socks; Nicolò hated feeling cold. In Yusuf’s mind, a thousand words roiled like the storm from a few days ago: there was the urge to justify himself, to make Nicolò understand why, along with the pressing need to apologise for breaking his trust. On top of it all there were unnamed feelings that he still couldn’t make sense of, overpowering and ever louder.

“We only…” he started, straightening the fabric along Nicolò’s shoulders. “We only ever wanted to keep you safe. _I_ only ever wanted to keep you safe.”

He felt his friend step into his space, his forehead coming to rest against his own. “I know that,” said Nico, his breath warm against his stubbly cheek, “I’ve seen you take arrows meant for Andromache and Quỳnh, even though they heal just as much as you do; I’ve seen you take food out of your mouth to give to those who need it more, or rush head first to help someone with all the odds stacked against you. You care so much, _so much_ , that you forget to take care of yourself. He bragged, you know.” His voice turned hard, the grip on his wrist tighter. “About how he cut your tongue before tying you up and leaving you to die in the fire. That’s why they managed to shake free and escape, but you didn’t, because you ran your mouth so much to keep their attention off of them that you were already half dead when the fire started.”

“You said you wanted to keep me safe, but what about what I want?” he continued, “How do you think I feel when I see _you_ hurt like this? I can’t bear it, Yusuf. I can’t.”

The raw pain in Nicolò’s voice was too close to what he felt whenever he remembered the cell, or the first days after it. To think he’d caused it in any way broke Yusuf’s heart. “I’m sorry,” he said, the exhaustion of the last days creeping in, and he wanted nothing more than to pull Nico to the bed and sleep for a week, his smell and his warmth driving away all the worry, but not before they solved this. “I’m sorry for not allowing myself to see how hurt you were by this.”

“Do you remember what Andromache said after she saw how we worked to solve that family dispute last year?”

Yusuf smiled. “That we worked together like sword and shield in turns,” he answered, “Complementing each other.”

“You must promise me then,” said Nicolò, “That you won’t try to always be both for me. Together, Yusuf, that’s how I need it to be.”

“Equals, then.”

The answering smile was blinding.

Nicolò declined the offer of food, eyeing the mussed up bed with such longing while clutching at his sleeve that it left little doubt to what he needed. It wasn’t any hardship for Yusuf to slip in beside him, to bask in his presence with no barriers, no unspoken words between them, for the first time in too long. In the morning he watched the Nicolò he loved slowly taking back his rightful place from the clutches of the ghost that had lately occupied it. He insisted on making them something to eat even though Quỳnh had already started it, smiling back at her teasing with a few barbs of his own. At no point he shook off her touch. It seemed like their companions had reached an understanding during the night too, he thought, seeing Andromache playfully elbow Quỳnh away from her path, receiving only a smirk in response.

He felt no sadness at leaving the abandoned farm behind, his heart lighter than it had been in months. As they rode out, Nicolò steered his horse to fall into step with him. “You look very strange without your beard,” he said, “Much less beard and hair.”

“I’m sorry if I can’t make it grow faster.”

Nico grinned. “I guess all we can do is mourn it and wait then.”

“Will that be such a hardship for you?”

“Looking at you is never a hardship,” Nicolò answered softly, and urged his horse ahead, leaving Yusuf to stare at his swaying back. As he watched him look over his shoulder, profile stark against the morning light, Yusuf could only think that the opposite was also true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again, and damn if this one didn't take me loooong. Well, it's here now and I hope you enjoy it! As always, if you ever wanna talk, offer some deeper criticism, my [tumblr](http://strangehighs.tumblr.com) is always open for it!

**Author's Note:**

> I got so many (!!!!) comments saying they'd like more of this universe! Honestly, I never imagined you guys would like this idea so much. Anyway, here we are, this is now a series. This is yet another hurt/comfort piece, and still pre-relationship, but I promise I have at least one lighter idea for another one after this. Again, thank you so much for all the comments in the first work, and as always you can find me at [my tumblr](https://strangehighs.tumblr.com) for more fic talk, general The Old Guard stuff, etc.


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